Beauty Queen

"Ms. Gracie has created in Pearce a character we both despise and sympathize with, a combination that is always difficult to pull off." Donna Long, Kestrel editor.

Deborah Pearce led a charmed life. Born in the right place at the right time, her beauty had vaulted her into a sphere of prestige and privilege that few women could ever dream of. The culmination of her good fortune had been winning the Miss America crown. She’d met Greg Sanderson the same year. A sweet, sincere man, he had pursued her with quiet determination. And Debbie had liked his single-minded devotion almost as much as his business savvy. Greg was the kind of man who succeeded at whatever he put his mind to. Six weeks after her reign ended in 1987, they married on a yacht in the Caribbean. Both wore flowing white attire. His suit of fine silk a gift from her along with a Cartier watch. Her wedding gown had been provided by Valentino. The veil was hemmed in an intricate lace pattern, which was echoed in the swirling confection of the two tiers of train at her feet. Diamond crystals on the bodice sparkled in the reflected light off the aqua waves. Debbie played the wedding video on occasion in her sitting room. And each year in June she carefully extracted the glorious dress from its protective wrapping and ensured that she hadn’t changed a bit. She still looked exquisite in the tulle and chiffon. She had thought that her crown and marriage were just the start. And in a way, they were — the start of her modeling career, the start of her family. Yet in another way, they had heralded the end. If only she’d known back then that she was at the zenith of her life, she might have held on a bit longer, savored the very essence of being the most beautiful woman in the world. But Debbie had truly believed that things could only get better.

Tango

"What a fabulous first line! The author subtly uses a day at the beach to capture the inarticulate isolation of young love." David Leach, author and Monday contest judge

Clam holes breathing. Kev pushes his index finger deep into one of the holes and digs. Six inches. Nothing. The sand is coarser at this depth, mixed with bits of shell and stone. "He's in here," he tells Briony. "How far down?" She watches Kev and the distant ripples of surf. "Far. I need to shovel." He bends to his knees to scoop the sand into a mound at her feet. Suddenly, Briony feels the terror of being pursued. "Leave it." She walks toward the water into a warm wind that lifts the short black curls from her neck. "I'm not going to kill it," he yells. Then why bother, she wonders. The game seems childish and unnecessary. The day is perfect. They are standing on miles of sandy beach between clear blue water to the east and evergreen trees to the west. Stillness is settling in the rising heat of the afternoon. It is the great escape they'd been hoping for. "Here he comes," Kev's voice peels away the quiet. A crab, camouflaged to look like shifting sand, scurries across the beach between them, its claws tangoing side to side. Briony waits until it has found a new hole then turns back towards the water. "It wasn't a very big one," Kev says as he races up to her. She can hear his disappointment. "Cool thought, right?"

Sundown Salute

"An amazing, talented new author -- this story pulls you right in!" Laurel Tarulli, librarian and Amazon reviewer

Fate is a kick in the ass. I wasn’t expecting this. I’m not ready in spite of every secret wish I’ve harboured in the last three years. The bed rails are smudged with fingerprints. I wonder how many orderlies it took to heave my mother into place on the thin hospital bed. The graying sheet stops just short of her scar, clearly visible at the neckline of the blue-green hospital gown. They’ve taken off her clothes. The ratty slacks and jumbled cardigan over a kitten t-shirt. I remember the tea stain above the kitten’s pink ear and the loose thread in the cardigan’s right sleeve. Shameful. A low hum reverberates. Machines that monitor my mother’s condition, possibly keep her alive. The sound is insistent. A monotone harsh as a mother’s reproof. Nurses stride by, not peeking past the light blue door into the dust-coloured room. The nurses don’t hear the hum, feel the tension, see the smudges on the rails. I’m on my own. “Mum, it’s me. Wake up.” I give her arm a little shake, but she just lies there like an innocent babe. If we were at home, I could swat her one and tell her to get over herself. That would get her juices flowing. But at the hospital I don’t know how to act or what to say. “Can you smell the flowers I brought in for ya? Mums for my mum.” I trot out my best bedside manner. I can barely smell the flowers myself. The reek of disinfectant overpowers everything. I’m getting a Javex headache from the fumes. I lean over the bed rail, inhale stale air, and whisper in her ear, “What you doing in there anyway?” As far as I can tell, she’s not doing anything. When I got the call from the Victoria General that she’d been in a car accident, I didn’t think it would be like this. Then the doctor said the word: coma. And I thought of all the bad daytime TV Mum watches. Another World of Misery and One Life to Lose. Invariably, someone falls into a coma just when they’re about to get married or some other joyous event awaits them. I can’t imagine what happy fate awaited my mother. But a coma seems right up her alley.